


Round and Round

by Littlebiscuits



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-08 22:36:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14703861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlebiscuits/pseuds/Littlebiscuits
Summary: This is the one mistake he can't seem to stop making. But it's a big one.





	Round and Round

Rook has made a few bad decisions since everything went to hell in Hope County. He knows it, and he'd admit as much to anyone who asked him. Rook has always been a man willing to own up to his own screw-ups. The whole place has gone to hell, and some days everything he does feels like one bad decision after another. So, yes, he's made mistakes, and when he's lucky no one one has died for them. When the dust settles Rook has always tried to fix them, if he can. Has told himself he'll do better next time. 

But this is the one mistake he can't seem to stop making. And it's a fucking big one.

There's a fan spinning somewhere overhead, Rook can hear it. Rotating in the darkness, and there's probably a metaphor somewhere there, about going round and round in circles and still ending up in the same place.

He rolls his head sideways on the pillow. 

John Seed is a long stretch of scars and tattoo ink in the first weak shapes of early morning light, asleep on the other side of the bed like that's absolutely fine and not insane at all.

Which is a mess that started when John straddled him in an underground bunker, all violence, innuendo and bright, furious madness and Rook didn't make him stop. But Rook had been assuming it was a stupid 'fuck where no one can see us, and try to bleed as little as possible' mess, not a 'come home with me, and fuck me in my own bed' kind of mess.

Because the first Rook can kind of accept, the first is a mistake anyone can make when adrenaline and blood and violence is suddenly your whole life. A mistake you can make more than once, at the very worst it ends up being a bad habit you can't quite break. But the second kind of mess is a lot more complicated. Rook doesn't know how, or when, this thing between them moved from the first to the second. All he knows is at this point it seems like a joke how quickly they go from sniping at each other to spread out on John's bed, headboard slamming against the wall so hard everyone in the fucking ranch had to hear it.

John Seed has dragged more than one 'yes' out of him. All different tones and flavours. He'd bitten a curved imprint of his teeth into Rook's shoulder, and Rook had thanked him for it by dragging him down to the bottom of the bed and bending him over it, while John hissed curses and threats, and eventually just fucking nonsense into the sheets.

There are maybe half a dozen Peggies roaming around downstairs, which would usually be a problem. But Rook's pretty sure they'd let him just walk out the front door at this point. Which is a place he doesn't think he should have let himself get to. Rook was never supposed to end up in John's bed at all, with one of his warm, tattooed arms flung over his waist, like John's trying to keep him here. Rook was never supposed to actually _sleep_ with him, to stay after the sex, like this means something. He feels like he's five steps away from staying for breakfast - but he doesn't know what those steps are, or how to cut them off before they accidentally happen when he's not paying attention.

Rook's smart enough to know that there's no way for this to end well.

Because John has never tried to hide the fact that he's a fucking psychopath, whose scars run all the way through him, they gut him like fault lines. He's manic and unpredictable, and he swings between need and violence so quickly that Rook thinks it's a survival mechanism he learned the hard way. He has no self-control for shit, and he uses religion as an anchor to halt his own messy self-destruction.

He's also the brother of Joseph Seed. Which is a whole host of other problems just waiting to happen.

There's so much in the valley that's probably currently on fire, or being shot at, or leaking chemicals, and people are relying on Rook to fix at least half of it. Instead he's here, in John Seed's bed, where he absolutely should not fucking be.

But the thing is -

Rook stares into the darkness. 

The thing is -

John mutters something against the bend of his shoulder, a grumbled complaint like he can hear Rook's confused inner monologue. Rook lays a hand on his back without thinking about it, that expanse of warmth and scar tissue that he's now far more familiar with than he should be. And it's easy enough to leave it there, to spread his fingers against the soft indents of John's spine. He knows John's awake, Rook can feel the slow tense and shift of muscle, the flare of breath on his arm. 

Even John still looks at him as if he's not sure why Rook is still here, as if he doesn't understand why they're still doing this, why Rook touches him, without coercion or guilt, or threats. Rook thinks that John is afraid to question it, that he pretends there's no question at all. Rook doesn't know what Joseph thinks of all this, he's certain that Joseph knows, he seems to know everything else. But there have been no new words carved into John's skin, no fresh violence that seems to have purpose. Rook knows this is something that isn't allowed, something that should be _sin_ and _indulgence_. But he also knows that Joseph loves his brother, that he wouldn't just use him as a distraction. Rook doesn't know why anyone involved is letting this happen, himself included.

The bed makes a quiet noise when John finally moves, when he slides up over him, warm hand on Rook's jaw, pulling it down. John kisses him like he's still expecting Rook to make him stop, to shove him away. When that doesn't happen his fingers curl and then dig, pull him closer. The kiss slowly shifts into something rougher, something demanding. John's lust is a determined, vicious, selfish thing. But there's another part of him, desperate, eager to please, expecting to be hurt, in every sense of the word. The two sides of him fit together badly, leave him a collection of sharp edges and open wounds. It makes every time they do this an unpredictable mixture of spite, need and barely contained violence.

Rook has never wanted anything like he wants this, and that probably says something about him too.

John is making it hard to think. One of his hands is coaxing in slow, lazy pulls, the other has fingers pressing hard into Rook's skin, making the nerves twitch. His mouth is open on Rook's throat, and Rook only barely trusts him not to bite all the way down. 

"Come on, come on," John demands, all manners and laziness gone, pulling Rook down to meet him. Rook stops pretending he wants it any less, spreading John's thighs and making room for himself. John doesn't let Rook get his fingers inside him, shoving his arm away impatiently. "No, just fuck me."

He only shuts up when Rook gives him what he wants, pins him to the bed and pushes all the way inside, one hard movement that makes John's teeth clack together, and his eyes fall shut.

"Yes," he says breathlessly, long, drawn-out, grateful.

Rook takes a shaken moment to appreciate the view, the indecent stretch of him, painted in ink and jagged, crooked lines. Before John huffs impatience, and knees him in the ribs. Rook grips the long stretch of muscle on either side of him, holds open John's thighs and fucks him, in quick, hard thrusts. 

John throws an arm up over his head, presses it into the wall, making his chest a long curve that Rook wants to dig his teeth into. Rook knows that if he slows down John will probably hurt him for it. Which doesn't make him any less tempted, to draw it out, make it sharp, make John snarl words at him, hard fingers dug in his skin. The headboard is slamming into the wood again, one sharp bang after another, and John Seed is laughing like that's the funniest thing in the world. Rook knows he's thinking the same damn thing.

They're going to wake the whole fucking house. 

Rook is going to drag the bed away from the wall next time.

_Next time_.

Jesus.

...

Later, much later, Rook feels like he's lost a fight, and John is a heavy but mostly agreeable weight across his right arm.

The sun is up now, Rook can see the fan clearly, slowly turning overhead, round and round. Inevitable, like the destructive, bloody end this whole mess is liable to come to.

"I make great scrambled eggs." John's voice is warm against Rook's throat. It's offered in an easy, half-joking tone. But underneath there's something far more complicated, something uncertain, and hopeful, bracing itself for rejection.

Rook sighs.

He does like scrambled eggs.


End file.
